


it’s nice to have a friend

by basementmixtape



Series: stozier songfics [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - No Pennywise, Bottom Stanley Uris, Drug Use, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, Smut, Top Richie Tozier, Underage Drug Use, Virginity Loss, Winter Break, fuck that clown, no pennywise, non-canon compliant, richie and stan are best friends, smut with feelings, smut with plot, so many feelings, they basically just get high together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 05:54:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20670404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basementmixtape/pseuds/basementmixtape
Summary: “You've been stressed out lately? Yeah, me tooSomething gave you the nerveTo touch my handIt's nice to have a friend”Stan and Richie get high together, the band of tension between them snaps.Inspired by the song It’s Nice To Have a Friend by Taylor Swift, very tangential inspiration. SMUT.





	it’s nice to have a friend

**Author's Note:**

> They’re both like 17 in this, no one attack me please.

"Get off me, you asshole." Stan didn't have time for Richie's bullshit today, stressed beyond belief, studying for his physics exam. It was looming large and deadly over winter break, poisoning the soft mornings and sweet gingerbread with pure panic.

"Come on, Stanny, I'm bored. You've been studying for hours, if you don't get it by now, you're never going to." He glared down at him sullenly, a rush of irritation cutting through him. Richie was sprawled dramatically across his lap, his mess of tangled hair in Stan's lap. Just looking at it made his skin crawl. He probably hadn't washed it in days. "Aren't you bored?"

"Of course I'm bored, I'm studying physics, Richie." He sighed heavily, tapping the cap of his pen on the table, wishing desperately he knew how to say no to him. Richie wasn't even trying all that hard to be convincing, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, looking away, black eyes fixated on the corner of the room. Plotting something, probably.

"Let's take a break, just for a while, then I'll- I can help, alright?" Stan snorted, and Richie glared, jabbing at his ribs.

"What? I'm good at physics, jackass." He was good at physics, irritatingly so, and english, chemistry, history, even math- he was in the calculus courses, even Stan hadn't taken calculus. It was supposed to be hell, and he just breezed through it. His lowest ever mark had been a seventy-nine in visual art last semester. He had been so awful at it he almost failed, Bill had to go in at lunches and help him with every project, and they had mocked him for it mercilessly. Revenge for all the times he had spoken to each of them in small, simpering voices when they complained about homework, in nothing but AP courses, and all too bitter about it.

"You're good at everything, academically at least." Stan considered him, he was biting his lip again, a nervous habit he'd had since they were small, he didn't know why he found it so distracting now. Something about his pink mouth and his dark eyes was doing strange things to his heart, his pulse picking up. "Alright, we can take a break." Richie grinned, wide enough he could see his crooked teeth.

"On your feet, Staniel, we need to get you up and moving. You've been in that chair all break, it's fucking depressing." Stan frowned, letting Richie take his hands, pulling him to his feet, every point of contact felt hot and bright, like sunlight.

He dropped Richie's hand like he'd been burned.

"What should we do? Do you wanna ride double to my place and get high?"

"I'm trying to _retain_ information here, Richie." He rolled his eyes.

"You haven't had any fun all break, you're just cooped up in this room, staring at those stupid flash cards. Let me help you relax, please, Stanny." He rubbed at his eyes, running a hand over his hair, biting his lip, catching himself, and letting it go. This was so stupid, so ridiculous. He had never been high before, this wasn't exactly the right time to start.

Then he glanced up and knew from his steady, dark look that he had already been watching him, his black eyes ringed with shadows, like he hadn't been sleeping well. Richie was probably dealing with exam stress too, but he was here, in Stan's bedroom, simply because he missed him. They had only been apart for three days, and Richie had shown up at his door with an overnight bag and a ridiculous smile, refusing to leave, even when Stan told him they would be studying until seven. Maybe this was his plan all along.

He grabbed his coat and his hat, a pair of gloves Beverly and Ben had knit for him, dark blue. He offered a pair to Richie, who always complained about having cold hands, but wore his impractical fingerless gloves anyway. He never dressed for the weather, it was like he was temperature blind, like he couldn't feel it. Stan bundled him up in two sweaters and an old winter coat, tucking his curls into a hat, wrapping a warm red scarf around his neck.

"I'm not gonna freeze to death or something, it's alright, Stanny." Richie's voice was soaked with amusement, but he didn't care. He refused to allow anyone to get sick under his care, and going out in the whipping wind and sharp snow in a hoodie, floral button up, and jeans would've ended in pneumonia.

"I know, it's just a precaution." He grabbed his winter boots and crept downstairs. He always felt guilty leaving the house when his parents were on holiday, and today was no exception, the dark rooms seemed strangely haunted, all the candles snuffed out, the fireplace empty, his parents low, bright voices gone. They were gone for two days visiting his dad's childhood friend, his uncle Fredrik. Stan had chosen to stay home, and his parents had allowed it on the condition that '_The Tozier Boy_' didn't come over. He felt like giving them the metaphorical finger by sneaking out with Richie to get high was a poor repayment for their kindness, but he was selfish by nature, and Richie was his best friend. He couldn't stay away from him if he tried.

There was a loud crash behind him. "_Fuck!_" Stan didn't even look, knowing he had knocked over the pile of cassette tapes by his bedroom door, he always seemed to do it when they weren't in the box. "_Oh, shit, goddamnit..._" the muffled curses were oddly endearing, so was the faint clatter when he knocked them off the shelf again, his hurried, clumsy movements making Stan's chest feel thick and strange.

"Just leave it, I can pick them up later." He said, and Richie's head poked around the corner.

"Sorry Stan." He looked very strange with his curls tucked away, his eyes looked even larger somehow.

"S'alright, not the end of the world." Stan slid on his shoes, and opened the door, ignoring Richie's cheeks, the red that flooded them when he met his eyes.

It looked like a blizzard had swept in in a matter of minutes, a wall of blinding white snow whistling through the door, curling around them so gently it almost didn't look real. On second glance, the wind wasn't cutting, and the snowflakes were fat and soft. It wasn't a blizzard, it was beautiful, almost dreamlike. He stepped over the little wall of white that had gathered against the door, tucking his hands in his pockets.

"Maybe we should walk." Richie looked up at the sky, he had snowflakes behind his glasses, on his eyelashes, the tip of his nose turning red. A smile split his lips.

"Jeez, Staniel, you think? Maybe all the studying really is drying your brain out." They walked side by side, it was dark out, and in the thick snow, it felt like they were surrounded by walls, private, tucked away, he could look at Richie, think of him carelessly. He was beautiful, so small in the storm he could've vanished entirely between Stan's heated glances. He walked closer, glad the snow was heavy enough he couldn't light a cigarette, Richie usually smoked every time they went outside. Soon Stan would be smoking too, not cigarettes, something his parents would probably find far more egregious.

Richie looked at him, caught him staring. He didn't look away, raising an eyebrow, challenging. His dark eyes were hidden behind glasses, they reflected the streetlights, light dancing over him, casting long shadows, his cheekbones more pronounced, his jaw. Stan felt like something important was passing between them, something huge, and bright as fire, and absolutely _terrifying_. Richie must have felt it too, he looked away, focusing on his snow covered converse, his feet had to be freezing.

The heavy feeling faded the closer they got to Richie's house, as empty as his. His parents were never home, Stan hadn't met them. Twelve years of friendship, sleepovers and birthday parties and hangouts in Richie's bedroom, and he had never even seen them. Wentworth and Maggie Tozier were extremely distant, it was really no wonder their son was fixated on attention, on noise. He had grown up in a quiet, forgotten house, haunted by ghostly spectres that called themselves parents. They kicked off their shoes at the door, coats tossed on the chair, hats and mitts and scarves following them. Richie had already lit a cigarette, that's all his house had ever smelled like, sharp tobacco and cinnamon candles. Richie's bedroom reeked of pot, he had a little plant growing in his window, he didn't sell off it, just smoked in himself or gave it to his friends. Stan crouched beside the couch, not following him upstairs, reaching to pet the cat, a tiny calico named Elise, given to Richie three years ago when he had a breakdown. His parents hadn't been home in months, three of them, and he had been absolutely distraught, calling them sobbing about how empty he felt, how alone he was. They had given him Elise, and left for two more months. Stan hated Richie's parents.

"You coming?" His hair was even more wild after the hat, standing up in every direction. Stan scratched her behind the ears, listening to her rumbling, scraping purr. She sounded like a tiny lawnmower.

"Yeah." He glanced at Elise, her big eyes were staring into him, warm brown. She tried to follow them up, but Richie picked her up from between Stan's ankles and basically threw her, shutting his bedroom door tightly, stuffing a towel underneath.

"She can't be in here while we're smoking, that shit is so toxic for cats." He busied himself, tidying his room a little, all his dirty clothes going in a bin, his books in a stack. That was the extent of it, otherwise his room was surprisingly clean, his bed was unmade, but he didn't have garbage everywhere anymore, not like he used to all the time. There were a few dirty coffee cups scattered beside his bed, and an open book face down on his pillow, all of his tapes were lovingly arranged by colour beside his stereo, his shelf was even organized now. Watching Richie clean up for him, his brow furrowed, focused and intent, was one of the strangest things in the world. He felt a strange swooping, soaring feeling in his gut.

"You don't have to do that, 'Chee." Richie stopped, looking at him with a strange fire in his eyes.

"If you say so." He dropped all the clothes he was holding, a shiteating grin on his face. "You ready to get high, Stan the Man?"

"Not particularly." Richie frowned, crouching in front of him, the little bag in his hand not doing much to quell his anxiety.

"You don't have to if you don't want to, don't worry." He shook his head, fixated on the drops of water clinging to Richie's glasses. Melted snow.

"I want to, you said it would help me relax, right?" Stan felt like his heart was in his throat, watching him grind the strange plant in a bowl, taking out a cheap lighter and something made of dark green glass, putting the weed in the end of it, a smoking pipe, it looked like. He burned it, poking at it with the bottom of the lighter, breathing in deep, cheeks going red, eyes sliding shut.

He exhaled a thin cloud of smoke, and Stan just watched him, watched him look up at him slowly, watched him wrap his fingers around the pipe, watched him put it to his lips for him, watched him press the flame into it again. "Breathe in, nice and deep, Stanny." He felt it scrape at him the whole way down, the smoke tasted like it smelled, heavy on his tongue. He didn't cough, he exhaled in a rush, cleared his throat, Richie settling beside him.

They passed the pipe back and forth until the air felt lighter, and Stan's head felt heavy, his hands strange and unrecognizable. He laid back against the bed, watching the smoke dance in the air, smiling faintly when Richie put on music._ The Queen is Dead_. Out of Richie’s favourite bands, _The Smiths_ were slightly more bearable than _The Cure_, both were equally whiny, but Stan was partial to the singers voice, he couldn't remember his name. He laughed, the idea of not being able to remember the name of the singer for some stupid band was inexplicably hilarious. Richie sat on the bed beside him. Stan sat up, mimicking his posture, their hands so close, pinkies almost brushing.

Richie grabbed his hand, and suddenly, Stan felt impossibly overwhelmed, his head swimming, his breath leaving him in a ragged gasp, sucking it in again. He grabbed Richie by the collar, and pressed their lips together.

They both froze, neither of them expecting it, but then Richie was kissing him, mouth soft against his. It was messy, and frantic, they were pulling at each other, that heavy feeling in his chest just get heavier and heavier, like a balloon filling with lead. Richie pulled him against his chest, biting at his bottom lip, tongue sliding past his lips. Stan's hands were tangled in his hair, parting his lips, every breath leaving him in sharp gasps, shifting, angling himself so he could drag wet kisses down his neck. Richie was breathless above him, but he still pulled Stan off of him, his tongue navigating his mouth again, doing _something_ to him, a bite or something, it was completely magical. Stan made a tiny noise, and leaned away, attacking his neck again, sucking a spot under his jaw, biting at it until he was sure it would bruise, they were touching all over, with desperate, frantic hands. Richie kissed his neck, and Stan felt a humiliating, full-body shudder drag down his spine, a low sound in the back of his throat choking him.

"Richie-" He felt his glasses bump against his collarbone, and he slid them off, tossing them beside the book on his pillow, just looking at him. His black eyes looked smaller without the intense magnifying effect his glasses gave him, his lips were dark red, slick with spit, it probably should've disgusted him. "You're so beautiful." He kissed him again, tugging at his sweater. The weight of his whole body pressed against him, Stan could feel him, hard, against his leg. He pressed his knee between Richie's legs, feeling his breath punch out against his neck, a small sound in his throat.

"Stan?" His voice sounded so strange, unfamiliar and pinched, lower, like he had just woken up.

"Yeah Richie?" Stan was struggling with the buttons on his very seasonally inappropriate floral shirt, kissing under his jaw.

"What are we doing?" He paused, leaning away, looking at him carefully, catching his breath. They were both bright red.

"Nothing, Richie. Why, do you want to stop?" He shook his head, looking so strange without his glasses, squinting at his face.

"It's not nothing, not to me." Stan's face screwed up.

"Wrong word, it doesn't change anything, I mean. Not nothing. It's not nothing to me either, Richie." He grabbed his hand again, and this time, he was the one getting kissed.

"I don't want to stop, do you want to be on the top or the bottom?" Stan had no idea how any of it would work, he hadn't got lessons on how to fuck your best friend in health classes.

"I don't know." Richie exhaled shakily.

"Just kiss me then." He listened, grinding his knee against his dick again, his mouth tasted dirty, like cigarettes and sugar, his hot breath pouring down his throat. He kept unbuttoning his shirt, leaning away to let Richie pull his jumper off, tossing it on the floor and crawling on top of him, undoing his jeans. "Do you want me to fuck you?" Stan felt his dick twitch, and apparently Richie did too, letting out a crackling laugh, pale and nervous, both of them tugging off their jeans, Stan pulling Richie into his lap, holding him around the shoulders, kissing him softly. He tried to be tender, kissing down his neck, over his shoulders, tongue dragging over his skin, biting hickeys into his collarbones. Richie was rooting for something at his bedside, and Stan was sucking at his skin desperately.

He surfaced with Vaseline, pulling off his underwear. The drugs made every touch feel magnified, even the feeling of his briefs uncovering his dick was overwhelming. Richie sucked him into his mouth, tongue swirling around the head, cheeks hollowing out, prying open the tub, covering his fingers in it. It was slightly odd, the feeling of someone slowly working a finger inside of him, but Richie's tongue was working at his dick with too much enthusiasm, and was almost pushing him over the edge.

"Not...going to last...like this." Stan said brokenly, and Richie's mouth slid off of him, his finger still fucking into him. He added another finger, and the feeling, stretching around his fingers, Richie forcing him open to make room for his cock was too intense for him to handle, especially when he added another, three fingers punching into him, scissoring inside him, stretching him out. He moaned, long and low. It wasn't enough. "Fuck me, Richie. Please." He pulled off his underwear, ripping open a condom, smoothing Vaseline over his dick. They kissed desperately while he tried to find his way inside of him, choking on laughter when his hand slipped and he almost brained himself on the headboard, Stan smiling into his mouth, gasping sharply when he started pushing in. He knew Richie was slightly larger than average, but he didn't expect it to hurt this badly. He felt like he was being torn in half, the aching burn bringing tears to his eyes. The stretch was almost unbearable, and Richie just kept going, looking down at him, gasping and writhing on his cock, eyes dark and intense, concerned, maybe.

"Fuck." Stan let out a heavy sob, pulling Richie into another kiss, warm and wet and clumsy. "Keep going, you're so big, I'm sorry I'm acting like such a pussy, you're so good." Richie slowed, but kept pushing in, Stan letting out about a million little noises, gasps and moans and groans. Richie was strangely quiet, finally bottoming out, pausing, to get him used to it, Stan assumed. "Move, please." He said desperately, and he listened, fucking into him, slowly at first, gentle. "Harder, I'm not going to snap in half."

"Are you sure?" His dark eyes were careful, tender, too gentle. This was his best friend, his best friend in the world.

"Very sure, fuck me, Richie. Hard." He dug his nails into his shoulders. Richie's hips snapped back, and Stan's legs wrapped around his waist, meeting his thrusts, harsh gasps painting the air between them. "You're...so quiet..." He felt him hit something inside of him, and his entire body went tense, pleasure washing over him, lips parting in a soundless groan, Richie got faster.

"Nothing to say." He wrapped his hand around Stan's dick, the one that had been inside of him, fingers still slick with Vaseline. He was jerking him off, quick and messy, eyes unfocused, struggling to keep an even pace.

"You gonna come for me, Richie?" Stan didn't know where the words were coming from, just pouring out of him, his head still heavy, his high even more intense now than when they had started. "You gonna fill me up, fuck me until I can't speak? If you want me to shut up, you're gonna have to make me. Fuck me so good I can't even talk." He let out a little noise, jerking him off faster, until Stan came between them, between their stomachs, painting them white. He didn't stop fucking him, even after he came, he let out a pained little breath, oversensitive. "Richie-” He said shakily, feeling his barely recovered dick twitch, the pain in his ass eased when he hit that spot again, the thing that made his entire body light up, he was already half hard again, but he knew he wouldn't last long, neither would Richie, based on how his hips were stuttering, he buried himself all the way inside him, eyes sliding shut, basically collapsing on top of him, Stan came when he felt his hot cum in the condom, his vision going white, crying out, falling bonelessly against the mattress, dizzy and dazed. Richie was kissing his shoulder, apparently in the land of the living, his weight still heavy on top of him.

"You alright?" Stan just nodded, moving his legs away from Richie's hips as best he could. They were numb.

"Can't feel my legs." They laughed, and it felt strange, with their chests pressed together. He was still inside of him, he slid out, and Stan winced, letting out a sharp pained breath. He tied the condom and tossed it in his wastebasket. "I've wanted to do that for a while."

"Me too." Richie stood shakily, like his knees were weak or something, disappearing for a minute, and appearing again with a warm washcloth. He wiped the cum off of them, throwing the cloth aside too, his book had fallen to the floor at some point, so they curled together on his bed, impossibly warm. They kissed again, lazily, just to touch each other, hands pressing aching, tender touches into their skin. It was aimless, just an exchange of gentle warmth, not going anywhere. They curled together on the bed, Stan’s head cradled in Richie’s shoulder, drifting off to sleep.

It’s nice to have a friend.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! Let me know if you want more from this version of my boys, I love them so much.


End file.
